Looking for Walter Newhouse Chapter Eight

The harsh ring of the telephone pulled me from a half sleep in which I had been dreaming I was being chased by Ron Wingate’s body parts. His hands darted after me on their fingers like crabs and his feet ran close behind the hands. Even Ron’s intestines looped along, like a ball of rubber bands. They chased me through Birmingham city centre, along New Street and into the Bull Ring, and all the time the Camptown Races played at full volume.

I was grateful for the interruption. You could tell Cora and Walter were the sort to live a higher-class sort of life because they had a telephone in the bedroom. Cora reached over and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ she mumbled groggily into the mouthpiece.

She listened for a moment and then handed the receiver over.

‘It’s for you,’ she said.

‘Hello?’ I said.

‘Ray, it’s Derek.’

‘How the hell did you know I was here?’

‘There was no answer at your place, so where else would you be? Everyone knows you’re shagging Newhouse’s missus.’

I had no answer for that.

‘You need to come on over to the club, like sharpish.’

‘Not tonight, Del-boy. I’m busy.’

‘Yeah, well, whatever it is, you need to reschedule. Mr Craggs is asking for you.’

I groaned. ‘Not again. Who does he want disposing of this time?’

‘Nah, it’s nothing like that. He just wants a word with you, that’s all.’

I looked at my watch. Six o’clock. According to Cora, she was supposed to meet Walter at nine.

‘All right, I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Make it twenty minutes,’ Derek said, and hung up.